Note: This blog entry is an early version of a chapter in my published work Beginnings: Part I. This version is unfinished and rough, and does not reflect the entirety of the finished product. Still, if you are the type who enjoys seeing different stages of the creative process, I hope you enjoy this particular iteration.
With one smooth, slow stroke the silvered dagger blade slid across a soft leather cloth. Tiny fragments were left behind; the smallest bits of hair one might imagine. Had they been allowed to grow they would have been silky and full, a lustrous ebony that shined in sunlight and glimmered magically under the light of the twin moons. Yet this would never be.
With one smooth, slow stroke the silvered dagger blade slid across a soft leather cloth. Tiny fragments were left behind; the smallest bits of hair one might imagine. Had they been allowed to grow they would have been silky and full, a lustrous ebony that shined in sunlight and glimmered magically under the light of the twin moons. Yet this would never be.
In a similar single stroke, the dagger blade swept once across a smooth black stone, and again from the blade’s opposite angle. Fragments were again left behind, these too small for the naked eye to register, and the blade came away incrementally sharper than before it had swept across the cloth.
The blade came up to the young woman’s head, her hand steady and practiced in its movements, to scrape across her scalp from the top of her forehead to the back of her neck. She moved the blade slowly, not out of fear but to ensure full use of the blade’s deadly edge. Silver glinted in the early morning sunlight, not quite broken over the horizon yet, as she ran enchanted blade across arcane tattoo. Her scalp had been imprinted, with painstaking precision, using the finest inks to shape an intricate pattern of magical runes.
Precisely the meaning of these runes was known only to the woman herself and those learned few in the world who had studied the arcane. This was exactly as she would have it, though she would prefer if at least a few less people were able to translate the runes. The more advantages one could gain the better, and an enemy’s ignorance is an advantage to be treasured. The woman smiled at this thought.
Her name was Mechises, and she was a mage of prominent standing in her home village. She shaved her head now as was her morning ritual, as was the daily ritual of many of her race. There would not be a single hair visible on her head once she was finished, just as it was every day of her life. Not a single strand grew below her neck, but no matter how hard they had tried her peoples’ most learned experts in the field of selective breeding had not managed to eliminate the growth of hair on one’s head.
Mechises took this in stride, and treated the ritual as an exercise in dedication. It was a test of her ability to remain consistent, just as much as her dedication to magic, and in her opinion the ability to maintain this ritual was yet another of her many assets. She forced herself to look forward to the ritual every day, whether it appeared necessary or not, as a test of her own ability to endure mundane repetition. Were she to view it as an onerous burden, she might be inclined to slack off now and again, so she maintained a tight control of her opinion of the task.
This ritual took several more minutes as Mechises systematically scraped the razor-sharp dagger across every possible surface of her scalp. By this point in her life she was of the opinion that she had mastered this task; she did not press hard enough to dig the blade into her scalp, did not hold it so loosely that she inadvertently left even a strand of hair, and held the blade at precisely the correct angle to shave as close as was physically possible.
It would have been simple for Mechises to have done this task with the aid of her beloved magic, if she had wished to do so. Developing a spell that would clear her scalp of any hair would have been a relatively simple task. There were even a large number of other wizards among her people who had developed spells to do exactly that, and Mechises might have easily purchased such knowledge from them. She had long ago chosen not to do this however, more for practical reasons than anything else. Mechises was not a morning person.
Groggy, grumpy, and more eager to fall back asleep each morning than she would care to admit, Mechises knew full well that she had to keep a tight rein on herself or risk succumbing to laziness. The sharp blade on her scalp, though it did not cause damage in her expert hands, helped her to wake up. Not to mention the time spent with this ritual allowed her to run through a series of mental calculations and processes intended to bring her to full cognitive ability before she opened her spellbook.
She was going through those processes even now, running through a series of mathematical formulae even as her hand made another pass across her scalp. Her people in general were fond of math, geometry, and physics, and Mechises was no exception. Though she had not dedicated her life to science and engineering as did many of her people, she approached life with a similar mentality. Such was the legacy of her people; a price paid, a choice made, and a path deliberately taken by the race as a whole.
Her people had once been earthen folk, called dwarves by the less tactful members of other races, in a time long past existing memory, though Mechises and any other member of her race would rather slit their own eyes than acknowledge such a fact. The ancient gods had given each of the earthen folk a special gift, and that of Mechises’ people had been a skill with metalwork. Fatefully the gnomes, as that particular group of earthen folk were called, had developed a fascination with physics and engineering.
Many wonders were developed in that age, though by current standards they were primitive and uninspired. In those ancient times however, the inventions were marvels of the age greatly sought by others; most of all by the powerful, mystical, and deadly race of orcs. Already mighty in their mastery of both the martial and arcane aspects of war, orcs sought to gain mastery over the new developments being made by the gnomes. In those days the orcish empires stood as the only true threat to the world empire, and their demands were not taken lightly. Fearful of angering the orcs, yet confident that the other member races of the world empire would back them, the gnomes politely refused.
As orcish armies descended upon the fragile gnomish cities, the mechanically-inclined earthen folk begged the gods and their allies for aid. They expected to see the other earthen folk, the forest dwelling dormal and their mountainous brethren the kodor, come marching over the horizon in deadly formation, weapons in hand, ready to aid them in a desperate fight against their immensely powerful enemy. In the same breath they prayed to their creators, humbly calling for divine aid in their most desperate hour. They were not prepared for the response.
In a stunning display of divine arrogance and outright foolishness, the old gods demanded that gnomes lay down their engineered weaponry before any aid was given. Equally surprising, the other earthen folk reiterated the gods’ idiotic demand, refusing to send even one soldier until the gnomes agreed to give up their machines. This was absolute madness! The gnomes had only to look to the front lines in their battles against the orcs to see that machines were the one and only thing standing between them and extermination or worse. Desperate, the gnomes expressed this precise fact to the gods and their brethren, again begging for aid. The gods and their slavish masses reiterated their foolish demands.
Left to fend for themselves, the gnomes stood no chance against the might of orcish armies. Even with their wondrous machines, they could not match orcish physical power, could not outwit orcish generals, and had no adequate defense against orcish magic. One by one, field by bloody field, gnomes saw their cities fall to orcish forces. Their one single victory was a systematic strategy they called scorched earth; they razed their own cities when it came time that the orcs were about to breach the final defenses, leaving not a single bolt of machinery behind to be scavenged and reverse-engineered.
By the time the last blow was struck, not a single gnomish city had been left standing. Gnomes were reduced to a pitifully small number of tired, frightened individuals desperately searching the countryside for each other. Only pure determination and not an insignificant amount of luck kept these gnomes alive long enough to find each other and band together for survival. Though remaining fragmented historical estimates vary, there could not have been more than several hundred gnomes in existence during those dark times.
Frightened, defeated, and rightfully angry, these remaining gnomes cursed the old gods and damned their treacherous brethren. They turned their back on religion, vowed to never again have anything to do with the world empire, and dedicated themselves wholly to engineering. Though the exact location is lost to history, it is known that that small group found a secret place hidden away from the world and built a city that would come to embody their newly embraced obsession with engineering. With each passing generation the city became more like a single giant machine in which the gnomes lived, adding to it continuously as they developed new ideas.
Moreover, the gnomes completely forsook everything that they had once been. They refused to call themselves gnomes, and no longer even acknowledged that they were members of the earthen races. Instead they began to refer to themselves as the betrayed, a title unto itself, though the other races had taken to calling them dark gnomes on account of the escalating viciousness in their general demeanor. This vicious nature took on a whole new aspect as the betrayed took their rejection of past identity to whole new levels.
Earthen folk do not breed. This stems not from an inability to breed, but an agreement with the gods to provide the earthen folk with new children to reward their faithful service. Partly in a deliberate act of blasphemy, but mostly from a lack of options, the betrayed instituted breeding programs to continue their devastated race. What’s more, they applied their newly embraced scientific attitudes to the act of breeding, and began selectively creating offspring that took their race down specific paths.
Deliberate, methodical, unrelenting, and ruthless in their application of this selective breeding, the betrayed slowly left behind everything that they had once been. Earthen folk are slightly shorter than humans, and the betrayed took this even further. Stockiness is considered an asset among earthen folk, and the betrayed came to despise this as unnecessary and wasteful, preferring to develop their race along much more svelte and athletic lines. Most importantly, earthen folk treasure their beards and value grizzly warriors, and the betrayed began to see all hair as a disgusting embarrassment to be done away with.
The result, after several thousand years (the millennium known as the Age of Purgatory notwithstanding) was what Mechises considered her rather impressive form. She was an arrogant young woman, and not without reason; among her people she was considered one of the more attractive women of her sizeable village. Standing nearly four feet tall, she was considered attractively tall among her kind. Her head was invariably smooth and well-formed, its beauty enhanced by the pattern of runes tattooed in a flowing path down the middle of her skull.
Her chin was delicate and narrow, flowing nicely with her high cheekbones and full pouting lips. Her pert nose separated two large eyes with striking silver irises, and she always took care to keep her makeup in perfect condition. She was of the arcane caste, and so she not only wore a little more makeup than most other women of the betrayed, she wore darker makeup to denote her status as a spell weaver. More importantly, the prominence of her family in the upper echelons of society demanded that she maintain her appearance at a higher standard than women of more common stock.
Her family’s impeccable genes, in addition to her forebears’ abilities in matters arcane, were a large factor in their prominent status, and Mechises was a prime example of her bloodline. She carried herself with a natural grace and dignity that could not be learned. She had hips capable of bearing healthy children, but not unattractively wide, and a narrow waist that enticed any male who saw her. Her chest was not considerably endowed, but was very well formed had gotten her into both more trouble and advantage than she would readily admit.
All of this natural beauty she was careful to enhance with masterfully tailored clothing. She wore a shimmering robe of dark purple fabric that seemed to flow over her form like dark wine, split in an enticing manner to show just enough of her shapely legs. The cut of her robe, and a velvety black vest fitted tightly around her midsection, provided anyone she met with a rather distracting view of her chest. She also wore small black earrings and, on the left side of her nose, a tiny red jewel piercing.
She wore a delicate silver chain around her neck, from which hung the arcane symbol for the abjuration school of magic, dangling gently between the swell of her breasts. Her small hands were wrapped in soft black fingerless gloves, and she protected her feet with supple black boots that had been enchanted to keep out moisture and extreme temperature. All in all, Mechises was considered to be a prime example of the beauty of her people, and a rousing success of generations of selective breeding and high society upbringing.
For the moment however, she was just finishing with her morning ritual.
Giving a little sigh as she made the last scrape of the blade across her skull, Mechises was pleased to clean the dagger one last time with its soft cloth and sheath the weapon in her left boot. As dedicated as she was to her morning ritual, as focused as she was in maintaining personal discipline, she was never displeased to finish this task. Her next morning task was another matter entirely.
Shifting partly to the side, Mechises leaned over to reach into her traveling pack and pull out a thin, well crafted book bound in dark purple cloth. The front of the book was etched in silver with her name, both in the ancient common tongue and the language of magic. Around the edges of the book were other silver etchings, small and glowing with their own light. These runes were a protection she placed on her book, in the unlikely event that someone else ever got their hands on it.
Running two fingers across a particular set of runes, Mechises uttered a quick phrase in the language of magic. Were she to touch the wrong runes, or speak the words incorrectly, opening the book would send a shock of arcane energy coursing along her nervous system. The protective effect on her book was similar to that of failing to correctly cast a spell, though it would reach much more deeply into the core of her body. Such protective measures were common among many wizards of the world, regardless of their particular race. With a quick gesture of her hand and a single word of magic, Mechises created a tiny spark of light that floated just above her left shoulder. The light of the twin moons and the early predawn light had been adequate to shave her head, but would be insufficient for reading her book.
Turning to the back of the book, she found one of many bookmarked pages and opened to the two most common spells she ever cast. With practiced familiarity she read through the two spells, speaking them without even genuinely reading the words; opening to the pages was a matter of preference, to ensure that she could see the correct words and would not get ahead of herself. Though simple, these particular spells were long and it would be easy to forget her place without a guide. Her hands, almost absently since she was so practiced, went to several pouches at her belt. Without breaking a syllable, Mechises spread fine oil over each hand and then, moving on to the next spell, she dabbed a fine silver powder on each cheek. In less than half an hour of spellcasting, she had rendered makeup immaculate and her person thoroughly clean regardless of what the events of the day held in store for her.
The feeling of magic coursing through her body, even in the casting of these two rather insignificant spells, was the same joyous thrill that it was every morning. Never intended for mortals, arcane magic was a power far beyond the simple linear, limited existence that any wizard lived. To touch it was to feel the power of creation. There was danger in this power, great enough to rupture every internal organ in her small body if she performed these rituals incorrectly, but the reward for success was a feeling of tremendous power and euphoria. Not to mention the small, often underestimated benefit of achieving a desired result by forming the power of creation into the shape one specifically wishes.
Flipping back to the front of the book now, Mechises set to the task of choosing which spells to prepare. If the difficult part of all arcane magic was casting a spell adequately enough to avoid damaging one’s own body with the flow of magic, then the problem with wizardry in particular was the question of remembering complex, highly specific, and often seemingly illogical concepts and calculations necessary in the casting of any spell. Others who used arcane magic had their own methods, but wizards and mages were the ones to master arcane magic through sheer dedication and focus. Such a task was not easy.
Some spells were so complex that in order to cast them, Mechises had to speak words that made no sense and would trick her tongue into painful contractions if she was not careful. This was done while simultaneously doing mathematical calculations in her head that would make any scientist balk at their sheer illogical and seemingly inconsistent results, and forming her hands in incredibly precise gestures. All of this, of course, is the last thing that anyone wants to be doing on the field of battle. Amidst the stress, the danger, and the rapidly shifting events of combat, very few wizards would ever be able to adequately cast a spell, not to mention the nightmare of being attacked while in the midst of such time consuming verbal, mental, and physical contortions. No Mechises, like any wizard, would be doomed if she ever attempted to cast her most powerful spells fully in the moment.
Thus, long ago, wizards of ancient times had developed the idea of building their powerful spells in such a way that they could essentially be pre-cast. The contradiction of the term itself notwithstanding, it was an idea as simple as loading a crossbow before carrying it into battle. During their development these spells were written in such a way that the majority of the spell, as much as possible, could be cast without actually releasing the power or achieving the desired result. The last few words, one or two specific gestures, and perhaps a nonexistent number or two were left unsaid, unformed, and unthought. When the time came, all one had to do was complete those last few actions.
This of course came with tremendous problems all its own. The complex words, thoughts, and gestures made for a difficult task of casting in the first place, but the power they generated was considerable and very dangerous to carry around in a mortal body. Each arcane spell must channel arcane magic through the caster’s body, and as these powerful spells were left incomplete their magic must be stored within the caster’s physical self until such a time as it can be correctly released. It took years of training and dedication, as well as a great deal of focus and willpower, for any wizard to develop the ability to carry this power inside them without collapsing and vomiting their own innards.
Skipping past the first section of her spellbook, the section containing much easier spells that could be cast at a moment’s notice and which she knew by memory, Mechises came to the section containing her most difficult spells. She was no apprentice wizard, by any definition, yet like all wizards she did have her limits. She could only carry so much arcane power in her body at one time, and she would have to carefully select which of her spells to prepare for this day. Fortunately, knowing what lay ahead today made her decisions rather simple.
First she chose a spell that would form a roiling ball of flame bouncing across the ground at her direction. Knowing that she would be encountering large groups of enemies today, she knew this would be quite useful. The spell’s capacity to last for quite some time, held together by sheer willpower, made it even more valuable for this day’s efforts. Carefully she set about casting the spell, leaving only the last portion unfinished. Later this day, perhaps she would be speaking those words to sending a flaming sphere among her enemies. She smiled.
Turning through the pages of her spellbook, Mechises next selected a spell based upon the element of air. This spell sent a rush of air at an individual’s back just as they jumped off the ground, and was useful for making quick escapes or, as she intended to use the spell today, sending a warrior leaping over enemy defenses to sow death among their ranks. Again, Mechises prepared her spell by casting all but its last words. She could feel the power of arcane magic roiling inside her, like a tidal wave held back by nothing more than a strand of silk. Closing her eyes she concentrated, focused her will on remaining strong against this power. The magic held back, stayed within its confines among her soul. That had been a particularly useful kind of spell; one that, though difficult and complex, she could repeat by retaining fragments of its power within her and correctly reiterating the final fragment.
Most obvious of all her spell selections, she next prepared a spell that dealt with light and space. A simple illusion, but one that was difficult to maintain, with such a spell she could remain unseen by her enemies no matter how fine their eyesight; all she would need do was choose her footsteps carefully to avoid being heard. This spell she also prepared, speaking its words carefully and adjusting her inflection with each syllable until she had them perfect. The power within was much greater now, as she quickly neared her limit.
Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves and let the power settle within her, the young woman’s brow furrowed in thought as she considered her the next spell to prepare. She was having a difficult time choosing between two spells, each of inestimable value in today’s circumstances. One spell was a terror on the battlefield, causing a massive explosion of flame that could envelop a great many victims, while the other spell was an illusion, tearing into an individual’s mind as he recoiled in horror from an assailant that was not there, leaving him vulnerable. The former spell was easily as valuable as the flaming sphere she had already prepared, if for slightly different reasons, while the latter spell could be used to incapacitate an enemy commander most handily. Mechises’ only dilemma was in considering how likely she was to run across one of the enemy’s commanders.
Finally, deciding that sending her sphere of flame through enemy ranks would be adequate, she settled on the illusion spell in the hopes that she would encounter one of the higher ranking enemies today. She did so enjoy that particular spell; it was entertaining to watch her victim scream and jibber in uncontrolled terror, swinging wildly at nothing even as madness ate away at their mind. Again she prepared her spell, feeling more power build within her small body with each word spoken, thought formed, and gesture made. Finished, she sat back and closed her eyes to again tame the roiling power within.
There were times when Mechises wondered if wizards of other races, nearly all of which were considerably larger than her, found it easier to carry the magic within them. It seemed a simple enough idea, although she had to admit that it was rather foolish when one actually thought about it. Magic was after all a nonphysical power, and the same amount could as easily fill a thimble as an entire castle. Not to mention the existence of wizards among the unai, a tiny race of people who stood no more than a few inches tall at best. Still, foolish as the notion was, it was one she sometimes considered while meditating to contain the power she was carrying in her small body.
As always, this meditation proved a challenge that she was eager to overcome. She managed after a time to settle the power within her, keep it contained and under her control as best as any mortal could manage, yet it was not easy. Mechises envied the control she had seen her uncle Nale exhibit, preparing six of these powerful spells to carry within him. The young woman hoped to have that kind of self control one day.
Opening her eyes at last, Mechises noticed that while she had been absorbed in her work the sun had finally broken over the horizon. Dismissing her magical light—a brainlessly simple cantrip that required almost no effort, taught to any apprentice—she stood slowly and looked around the small camp to take stock of things. They had no campfire, so as to avoid alerting the enemy of their presence, but had slept with their bedrolls close together for security. Three bedrolls the size of Mechises’ own were arranged neatly in a circular pattern around where a campfire would have been. The group’s fifth member, a crude human who demanded payment in alcohol and meat, apparently used no bedroll. He was nowhere to be seen, but that was not unusual in the morning.
“All finished?” The voice came from behind her, and Mechises turned to see Coyle standing from his seated position where he had spent his hours on final watch. He was as attractive as most men of their carefully engineered race, and Mechises was never displeased to lay eyes on him. The young man’s head bore no tattoos like Mechises had, but he kept it as smooth as did every member of their race. As a member of the warrior caste he was well built, not overly muscled but wiry and agile, practiced with any number of weapons and in tremendous physical shape. Mechises let her eyes wander over her companion’s frame appreciatively, and noticed he was doing the same.
“Yes, only just,” she said in response to his query. “I appreciate your discretion in allowing me no distractions this morning.” She smiled sardonically as she said this, and Coyle gave an amused chuckle. Only the other day she had berated him quite thoroughly after he had decided to don his armor while she was in the midst of preparing spells. Her concentration had not been broken so much as she had simply found the jarring metal noises intolerable while she was engaging in such a delicate and deadly task.
Mechises went to stand beside Coyle, and the two of them looked out from the cover of the thicket they were in towards the vulnerable enemy. The man was second in command of this little strike force, taking orders only from Mechises herself, and they had developed a manageable rapport over their brief time together. Her task was to accomplish a specific mission and see to it the other members of the small group did their part. Coyle’s task was simple; keep the enemy away from the wizard. He was not at all unsuited to this task, a fact for which Mechises was grateful but not particularly surprised. Like many of the betrayed, he had after all been born to his task.
He was a member of the warrior caste, aggressive and militaristic. As far as she knew Coyle had been born to parents who were also in the warrior caste, and he had taken to his birthright from an early age. Though not a family with very much political or monetary power within their society, his was a family respected by other members of the warrior caste. That ringing endorsement had been more than adequate for Mechises to choose this warrior as her second for today’s mission. She glanced over at him, taking in the profile of his face and the glint of early morning sunlight in his emerald eyes. He would likely be quite a pleasant bed companion, too, though she hadn’t yet had time to test that hypothesis.
Sighing to herself, Mechises put that thought to the back of her mind and focused again on the day’s task. She gazed long and hard at the small village they were going to attack, a village that was blissfully unaware that only yards away on either side were warriors and spellcasters seeking their death. Once again, as she had done upon their arrival the night before, she took note of the few small towers along the village’s wooden wall. She noted the number of guards, all sleepy and eager for the arrival of their replacements. She noted the weak point in the wall, a small notch that lowered one section of the wall that was surprisingly close to a tiny hillock not far away. Their human companion would be sent over that wall by the spell of air she had prepared earlier. Not very far down the wall from that, she could see the gate through which she and her escort would walk.
Be prepared, a voice suddenly said in her mind, we strike within the hour. Mechises looked up and strained to see across to the other side of the village, where the bulk of their force was hidden. The thoughts had come from Acheshi, telepath and adjutant to the leader of this expedition. We are ready, Mechises thought, knowing that Acheshi was still in her mind expecting a response. She gave the thought a playful, teasing air, reminding the telepath of their last intimate encounter. There would be no response to such playfulness, not at a time like this when Acheshi was busy sending her thoughts to other similar strike forces around the village, but Mechises liked to play with her friend all the same.
Turning to Coyle, Mechises gave him a wordless nod. Well practiced, the warrior knew exactly what this meant and turned to go rouse the group. Mechises turned back and kept her gaze on the village, listening to the sounds behind her as Coyle quietly woke the two sleeping dark gnomes. The two were twin brothers, Teek and Delf, not unattractive by the standards of the betrayed but nowhere near as handsome as Coyle. Such a comparison did them no justice among the society of their people however, and so the two were relegated to life in the lower strata. They did not complain; they were after all good and loyal soldiers.
Wordlessly Coyle went off into the trees and located the final member of their party, the human called Samos. Teek and Delf set about packing up the group’s camp, rolling up bedrolls and picking up the utensils from last night’s dinner. There would be no breakfast this morning, there never was on any day the betrayed attacked a settlement of the other races. Blood for blood was their motto, since by the inaction of the other civilized races the dark gnomes had been nearly exterminated. No on this day, on any such day of vengeance, the only meal they would eat would be their enemies, roasted to perfection over the fires of their own crumbling homes.
Coyle soon returned with Samos, the large man preferring to sleep out among the wilds as did his savage people. Mechises grimaced at the uncouth mannerisms of the human, as he entered the campsite with a belch and was very likely scratching himself in a most undignified manner. He was massive compared to Mechises’ people, and even by many human standards truth be told. Standing six feet tall, his chest and shoulders were extremely broad and muscular; the man was physical power given form. His face however was blocky and rough, Mechises hated to look at it. Worst of all, the man’s face seemed perpetually covered in stubble and his head sported long flowing brown hair past his shoulders. It was all she could do to keep from gagging every time she saw him.
Still, he was good at what he did and as long as they paid him well he didn’t seem to mind their brutal tactics. Speaking of which, it was nearly time for the group to be off. Mechises walked back to the camp and began to help Coyle into his armor. Delf helped his brother Teek don his own armor. Delf was not trained as a frontline combatant like his brother, but was instead used as a scout and assassin, unseen until the enemy felt his blade in their backs. Mechises planned to use him extensively in this engagement.
Warwalker armor, that being donned by the two soldiers this day, was among the greatest inventions the betrayed had ever produced. In many ways it resembled simple plate armor; comprised of shaped plates that covered the wearer from head to toe, the only better protection was actual plate armor itself. Unfortunately warwalker armor did tend to leave a few places unprotected, but these were relatively small openings and the armor more than compensated for this shortcoming with its primary function.
About the only problem that had come from the choice the betrayed made to deliberately breed themselves into a smaller form was the disadvantage this gave them on the battlefield when facing larger enemies. Unwilling to be outdone, the dark gnomes had taken to solving this problem with typical efficiency and had succeeded marvelously. Beneath the protective plates of warwalker armor, at the joints and in the chest and powered by a small compartment at the armor’s back, were intricate yet sturdy workings that increased the wearer’s physical ability by leaps and bounds. Finally strapped into his armor, Coyle reached down and picked up his sword and shield, each large enough that they should have been normally used by a man the size of Samos.
Mechises stood and went to the back of Coyle’s armor, opening the panels there and eyeing the gauges with a critical eye. She was certainly no engineer, but there was not a betrayed alive who did not know at least the basics. She tapped the little glass cylinder containing a disgusting, shivering green goop, and could not help but grin wickedly to herself. That which fueled the devices of the betrayed was a terrible thing indeed, and one of which other races would be horrified to learn.
Some time after their near eradication at the hands of the orcs, the betrayed had come to discover quite inadvertently that the blood, in fact every tissue, of the race of goblins proved to be a highly efficient source of fuel. Unfortunately it proved difficult, even with enslaved goblins, to extract this fuel in a sufficient quantity to be of any real use. Undaunted, the betrayed set about to ridding the world of goblins whether they had been asked to or not. Over a series of ruthless campaigns they tracked, caught, and enslaved every known goblin that had ever walked the face of Esaria. Modifying the tenets of their own selective breeding program and applying it to their goblin slaves, combined with not a small amount of arcane manipulation, they had systematically reduced goblins to the point of being no more than shapeless, semi-intelligent goo. Disgusting ooze that did nothing more than slurp around in holding cells, breeding incessantly until the day it was used for fueling some device. Just like this unlucky individual in the back of Coyle’s armor.
Confident that Coyle’s armor was in perfect condition, Mechises closed and secured the back panel with a few deft twists. The armor hummed quietly as Coyle stretched his arms and tested all the appropriate movements. Nearby, Samos burped. Mechises turned to him and pointed towards the village.
“Last chance tall one, do you still wish to accompany us on this attack?” She kept her cold, silvery gaze on him unwavering.
Samos shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. “Sure, if you guys got any more of that drink I had the other day. Plus you said there’d be coin.”
Mechises smiled accommodatingly. “Quite so, as much as you can carry from the village,” she said. Turning back to her other companions, she motioned the group to the edge of their encampment. Still out of sight of the village, the five of them waited in breathless anticipation. The two armored warriors, their suits humming quietly, flexed their fingers that held sword and shield. Delf licked his lips in eagerness, and even Mechises found herself excited. From one of her pouches she pulled a small blue crystal sphere, kissing it for good measure. It was her arcane focus; the device that would help her channel arcane power the way a spigot makes it easier to control water.
From the village, they could now hear the sounds of people going about their morning routine. Farmers set about their morning routes on the meager farmland they could fit within the defensive wall, children laughed as they avoided chores to play favored games, and priests walked throughout it all and gave their blessings of the day to the villagers. The attackers understood none of the words being spoken in the village; it was the language taught by one of the gods, a language that no betrayed would ever learn. They spoke only the ancient common tongue, words that had been forbidden by the new, much more active gods.
Mechises’ lip curled in contempt. Prayers of the faithful were easy to identify in any language; those simpering, monotonous tones were enough to make the young woman’s skin crawl. It was why they were here, why they would feast upon this soft little human village before the day was through. These servants of the gods did not deserve a peaceful life. Gripping her small blue orb in anger, Mechises found she truly was eager for the attack to commence. Within moments, she felt Acheshi’s thought within her mind.
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